For days Maureen had been preparing the house for Harold’s return. She had taken the two photographs he kept in his bedside drawer and measured them up for frames. She had repainted the best room a soft shade of yellow, and hung a pair of pale-blue velvet curtains at the window, which she had picked up at the charity shop, good as new, and shortened. She baked cakes to store in the freezer, as well as a selection of pies, moussaka, lasagne and boeuf bourguignon; all those dishes she had cooked in the days when David was alive. There were jars of her runner bean chutney in the cupboard, along with pickled onions and beetroot. She kept lists in the kitchen and bedroom. There was so much to do. And yet sometimes, when she looked out of the window, or lay awake listening to the gulls crying like children, she felt that despite her activity there was something about it that was inactive, as if she were missing the point.

Supposing Harold returned home and told her he needed to walk again? Supposing he had outgrown her, after all?

A ring at the doorbell in the early morning brought her downstairs. She found a sallow-faced young girl waiting on the threshold, with lank hair, and wearing a black duffel coat although it was already warm.

“Please could I come in, Mrs Fry?”

Over tea and several apricot flapjacks, the girl told her she was the one who had given Harold the burger all those weeks ago. He had sent her many lovely postcards; although due to his sudden rise to fame there had been an inconvenient number of fans and journalists hanging about the garage. In the end her boss had been obliged to ask her to leave for health and safety reasons.

“You lost your job? That’s terrible,” said Maureen. “Harold will be very sorry to hear this.”

“It’s all right, Mrs Fry. I didn’t like the job anyway. Customers were always shouting, and in too much of a hurry. But what I said to your husband about the power of faith has been bothering me ever since.” She looked fidgety and anxious; she kept tucking the same strand of hair behind her ear, although it wasn’t out of place. “I think I gave him the wrong impression.”

“But Harold was inspired by what you said. It was your faith that gave him the idea to walk.”

The girl sat bunched up in her coat and gnawed at her lip so hard Maureen was afraid she would draw blood. Then she tugged an envelope out of her pocket, and removed several sheets of paper. She held them out, but her hand was trembling. “Here,” she said.

Maureen’s mouth bent into a frown. “Salsa for the over sixties?”